Where The Wild Thyme Blew
by Elektra3
Summary: Slash. An older Lavender Brown reflects on some choices she made.


All right, here's the obligatory warning: This is slash. Femslash, to be exact. Yes, folks, a girl who's in love with another girl. It isn't at all graphic, but if the concept bothers you, feel free to click the handy-dandy "Back" button at the top of the screen. You're certainly entitled to your opinions, although if you flame me, I will laugh at you. Loudly.

Anyway, this particular plot bunny has been sniffing around me for the past few days. I'm not quite sure where it came from, exactly, but it probably took root in my head when I was rummaging through various fanfiction sites the other day and it occurred to me that I haven't seen a Lavender/Parvati story. Then, when I was flipping through "A Midsummer Night's Dream," the fic began to take shape, and the rest, as they say, is history. It came out (no pun intended) a little more intense than I originally intended, but I'm happy with it.

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"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite overcanopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet muskroses and with eglantine.

There sleeps Titania sometimes of the night,

Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enameled skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in."

William Shakespeare, "A Midsummer Night's Dream" 

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We were so happy then.

Oh, Parvati, you looked so beautiful that night at the Yule Ball, with your bangles and your makeup and your perfect grace. Not even Hermione, waltzing along on Viktor Krum's arm like she owned the world, could match you. You were beautiful, Parvati, the most beautiful girl in the room. I stared so much I'm surprised that Seamus never noticed anything.

But then, boys seldom do. Notice things, I mean.

It's been ten years since that night, Parvati, but I still remember every detail: You, gliding along on Harry's arm, face lit like a beacon; smooth, teak-brown skin that covered delicate limbs; brown eyes glowing with that inner light you always had; slender hands fluttering like small, winged birds… oh, Parvati, I could never understand why everyone always stared at Fleur Delacour when you outshone them all.

I remember watching you, even when I tried not to: In class, as you would answer a question; sitting together in Professor Trelawney's tower, our brows furrowed in concentration over tea leaves and tarot cards and star charts; giggling over this boy or that as I pretended to be all starry-eyed over Fine Male Specimen XYZ; guilty, half-denied glimpses when you were changing at night… Oh, the shame, Parvati, I remember the shame. How I tried desperately, year after year, to convince my self that I wasn't one of THOSE girls, that my feelings for you were only friendship, that my heart didn't skip a dizzy beat whenever I caught a glimpse of your bare skin… Oh, Parvati, I was so ashamed of all those heartbeats.

I remember the last day I ever saw you, your eyes lit in anticipation as you boarded the Hogwarts Express, laughing with me over some joke or another, eagerly awaiting the minute when you would see your family again, when you would know they were safe from You-Know-Who… I remember being stopped by Professor McGonagall as I was walking back from Hogsmeade the next day and hearing of the attack on the train… I remember biting my newly-manicured nails to the roots, not caring that the nail polish was bitter and was probably poisonous… I remember identifying you and Padma among all the charred and mutilated bodies that the Death Eaters had left in the ruins of the Hogwarts Express… I remember your parents coming to get me for the funeral… I remember watching as your coffin was lowered into your grave, crying my eyes out, being hugged by a confused and confusing welter of bodies, staring at the photographs they showed at the funeral home as though to emblazon your beautiful face in my memory so that when I thought of you I wouldn't see a smoking corpse instead of the brave, beautiful, kindhearted friend I once knew… and I remember the shame. Not the familiar shame that I had always felt, but shame in my cowardice. Because I never once told you. Oh, Parvati, I never once told you that I loved you.


End file.
